What Makes us Tick
by Doctor Twelve
Summary: When the clock that Sherlock's father gave to him comes to a stop, time itself stops along with it. Now it's up to Sherlock, John and a mysterious man called 'The Doctor' to save time.
1. Chapter 1

Tick, tick, tick.

The large wall clock had its hands positioned at ten and two; Ten-ten, it read. Sherlock had never cared to bother with time before but, now, his attention was fixed to the clock. However, his attention wasn't on the time itself but the way the clock moved. The ticks grew farther apart as he listened and the pace slowed, like that of a tired metronome slowly approaching rest. His fingers tapped at the arms of his chair as he witnessed time slow, trying to place why the clock would be slowing down.

It did not run on batteries.

It was a clockwork clock that the Detective's father had given him before his disappearance. Mycroft had been twelve and able to remember more of the day than his kid brother, but Sherlock was only five. All that he could remember of the man was that he was a good man, a tall man, with a long brown coat and the last words he'd spoken to his sons.

"When the clock stops, I will be back. I promise you that."

Sherlock sat without moving as the last few motions of the clock came to a stop; the ancient gift halting a second before Ten-eleven. His eyes danced to his cell phone beside him, then back to the clock and then to the flat door. Silence.

The only thing that could be heard was the tapping of Sherlock's fingertips, strumming, against the coarse fabric of his arm chair as he waited. _"There is no way…" _The detective thought to himself, eyes moving back to the clock on the wall. _"Mother told me that he'd left this earth long ago. Why am I acting like a small child about this situation?" _Downstairs the front door creaks open, the heavy soles of a man stepping into the hallway. Sherlock sits up straight in his chair, trying to keep himself composed.

The footsteps begin up the stairs; there's a three second pause between each step that has Sherlock rubbing his palms against the arms of his chair. Step…Step…Step. Nails scratch against upholstered arm rests as the steps grow louder, more hesitant now. The suspense was killing him; the footsteps drew closer now, taking their time and Sherlock stood to his feet to pace across the floor. His heart rate was elevated, why?

Sherlock paused in place as the footsteps neared the flat door, turning to face his visitor with an unreadable look taking his features – his shaggy hair unkempt.

John entered the flat then, arms bracing a large grocery bag. The moment their eyes met the doctor stopped in place, offering his flat-mate a look of confusion. "Expecting someone?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, turning back to collapse in his arm chair. "No. Must you be so loud when you walk up the stairs?"

John's winced at the comment, face growing annoyed as he walked into the kitchen. "In a bit of a mood today, are you? I picked up some food since you don't appear to be on a proper case-"

"And what makes you assume I don't have a case?" Sherlock pressed his palms together, holding his hands up to his lips. "Just because one is confined to their flat does not entail that they are without entertainment."

John begins to put away the groceries, laughing under his breath. "You're really in a mood today. I might just keep my distance if snapping is all you'll do."

Sherlock isn't paying John any attention though; he's looking to his cell phone with a quirked brow. He picks it up and inspects the time on the screen before setting the item back on the table beside his arm chair.

"John, may I see your phone?"

John sighs, stopping his activities to look at Sherlock. "Again, Sherlock? Are you going to text another stranger from my phone?"

Sherlock hops to his feet, glancing at the clockwork clock as he passes into the kitchen. He stops a few feet away from John, extending his hand to his flat-mate. "No, this is more important."

John looks at Sherlock and takes a deep breath, gaze dropping to the floor before he lifts it back to the taller man.

"Alright. If you promise not to look through my personal things," John tugs his cell phone from his pocket and hands it to the detective. "It's embarrassing."

"No one's interested in the type of porn you watch. This is of greater importance." Sherlock takes the phone and turns it to John, showing him the time. At first, the shorter man tilts his head in confusion and narrows his eyes as if to inspect the screen for dust. Sherlock holds the phone closer to his face. "The time, John. The time."

"It's Ten-ten. What about it?"

Sherlock hands the phone back to the man. "It's been Ten-ten for seven and a half minutes now."

John breathes a laugh, leaning against the countertop as he shakes his head at Sherlock. "Right," He turns back to the groceries lying about the counter. "Your brother is right, you've gone absolutely mad. Perhaps we should-"

"Nevermind what Mycroft has said! Time has stopped, John. Time has stopped at exactly ten minutes past ten a.m. and there's no way it's possible. It's as if someone has stopped every clock." Sherlock's face was serious and John knew he wasn't joking around now; The Doctor opened a cabinet and pulled a kettle out from within, setting it on the counter.

"Earl Grey, then?" He asked, the detective now trudging about the kitchen floor in thought.

"Please. Black with two sugars would be best. I have to call Mycroft."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had been sitting behind his desk since nearly seven that morning, taking visits from people that were in need of his assistance. A "public service" as he would call it. The tea Anthea had fetched for him was now turning cold, the steam from the cup turning translucent in the air. He sat reclined in his large desk chair, looking out one of the windows of his office in thought until his break was interrupted. A knock came from the office door and the man turned toward it, straightening his tie and hair quickly as he sat up straight. Appearance was important, after all.

"Enter." Mycroft called, clearing his throat.

Anthea entered, her professional style of dress contradicting the worried expression upon her face. It was unusual for Mycroft to see his secretary like this, the woman of steel, and he found himself worried as well.

"What is it, Anthea?"

Anthea had a cell phone clenched in her palm, handing it across the desk to her employer. "It's…your brother. He says it's urgent."

Mycroft took the cell phone slowly from the woman, lifting it to his ear with a false grin. "Hello, _Sherlock_. Finally out of your clandestine phase, I see."

Anthea snatched the tea cup from Mycroft's desk. "I'll make you a fresh cup." Mycroft mouths 'Thank you'.

"Mycroft, have you looked at the time lately?" Sherlock's voice seems distressed and that is new to his brother; hastily the man looks at the time.

"It's ten minutes past ten. But you didn't call to ask me the time, after all, you do have that large clock." Mycroft inspects his fingernails as he sits back in his chair again. "What is it, now? Have you found yourself capable of asking for help?"

Sherlock grumbles on the other line. "It's been ten minutes past ten for thirteen minutes now, or have you not noticed this?"

Mycroft perks up in his seat, trying to register what has been said to him. "Are you insinuating that time has stopped?"

"Not insinuating. Time _has_ stopped, Mycroft. The clock has stopped."

Mycroft looks to the clock on his wall, the second hand entirely frozen. No ticks to be heard. "Time cannot just stop, Sherlock. That's-"

"Impossible? Yes. Father's wall clock stopped this morning and, now, time itself appears to be frozen." The words throw the older man into a memory of their father. The look on the man's face when he said he'd be leaving them. Mycroft hand felt abandoned by the man – as if their father hadn't wanted them and was leaving for something better. The Government official had never recovered from it.

Anthea enters with another cup of tea, stopping in place when she notices Mycroft's expression. Slowly the woman backs out of the office to give him a minute. There is silence.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft withdraws from his disoriented state, snapping into reality again. "Ah, yes. The clock has stopped. I'll look into everything I possibly can and let you know if I find anything. But, Sherlock, I must ask you one thing…"

"I'm not one for favors."

"If he returns, I'll be the first to know." Mycroft's fingers tapped at the edge of his large, oak desk as he spoke.

"Of course."

With that the two hung up their respective phones and Mycroft's office returned to silence for a few moments. Suddenly there was another knock at the man's door – Anthea returning with tea – and behind her stood a man in a blue suit with brown pinstripes, his brown hair sticking up as if to defy gravity.

"This man is here to see you, sir. He has a pass from Foreign Affairs." Anthea set the cup before Mycroft, offering him a worried smile. "I thought it best to allow him in."

Mycroft offered the man a business smile, waving him toward his desk. The man was familiar, so much so that it nearly made the Business man nauseous; In the right light the suited man almost looked like Mycroft's father, but that had been so long ago that he wasn't sure if it was true.

"Thank you, Anthea. Take the rest of the day off."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft had arrived half an hour after their phone call, a stranger in his company. The man was tall, thin, sporting a blue suit with brown stripes and hair that seemed to curse the laws of gravity. From the moment that Sherlock spotted the man he found a bitter taste of disapproval in his mouth; the Detective unmoving from his chair as the two unwelcome visitors took seats opposite him. The insults scrambled around in his brain like flies to freshly rotted fruit and continued to swarm as the minutes drew by. Well, what Sherlock would assume were minutes – as time had stopped.

John, however, liked the new stranger. For the first time he witnessed someone that was willing to put Sherlock in his place, to be stern with him without using words, which impressed the army doctor greatly. While he and Mycroft were adapting to the sudden and out of place silence, it was interesting to see Sherlock so…child like. As the Detective and The Stranger watched one another intently, John hurried off to the kitchen to start a fresh kettle of tea for their company – leaving the room in a total stillness.

"This man is from Foreign Affairs, he deals with issues worldwide and is ranked top in his field." Mycroft spoke after a moment. "You do fancy professionals."

Sherlock did not acknowledge his brother, only grumbled as he watched the uninvited stranger. Loathe wasn't quite the word.

"Mr. Smith, do take over."

The man cleared his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands flat together for a moment. "Well…I'm John Smith. You may call me The Doctor." The Doctor sat back against the chair, letting his arms fall against the rests as his legs crossed widely. "A source has given me specific instructions to tell both Holmes brothers something of great importance, but only if Sherlock can behave himself and listen."

There was a cold clank of metal from the kitchen followed by the sound of John hissing; neither man lost eye contact with the other.

"Sorry, I- well, the kettle's hot." John called; still they sat frozen and fixated on one another.

"The news is a bit different than what you're used to. It deals with a special classification of life form, something the government has sworn me to protect…" The Doctor reached into his suit to pull out a small sheet of paper and waved it at Sherlock.

To Mycroft it read 'Foreign Affairs, Special Ops, British Government', to Sherlock it was just a blank sheet of paper being thrust in his face.

It was then that Sherlock inspected the man entirely. **Untarnished suit**, worn but unstained sneakers, a narrow item in his pocket – too small to be a gun – and a pair of glasses that were not prescription. Too thick and heavy to be plastic but too thin to be glass, this did not register in the Detective's mind. The suit itself was confusing to the detective; walking a mile down the road, sitting in a car of any sort would leave a trace of something on the thickened material and there was nothing. Sherlock quirked a brow.

"Are you going to continue be stubborn, is what he means to ask." Mycroft spoke, catching his brother's attention. "This could be important."

"He wasn't paying any att-"

"I was paying attention to parts that were useful, the rest was unnecessary. Yes, I'll stop being stubborn if you tell me who you_ really_ are. That seems more important, seeing as you're a guest in my house." Sherlock's gaze narrowed and the Doctor's lips curled, as if his half-finished comment was meant to rouse Sherlock in succession.

A moment later John emerged from the kitchen with a tray, on it sat four cups of tea. The army doctor retired to his arm chair to listen to the conversation, Mycroft doing the same. It was as if Sherlock had met his perfect match; a match so perfect that Jim Moriarty seemed trivial now.

"If I told you where I was from, you'd never believe me." The Doctor stated, turning to look at John. "How do you feel about _aliens_, Doctor Watson?"

For the first time, everyone heard Sherlock give an honest laugh and all eyes shot in his direction. Mycroft and John were both frightened by the sound, exchanging worried glances between themselves as the questioned soared over their heads.

"What is so funny?" John asked, looking at the 'Doctor' that sat opposite his flat mate in astonishment. He understood then. "Is he, does he think you're _implying_ that you're an _alien_?"

"I'm not implying anything, Doctor Watson." The expression on the stranger's face was void of emotion, almost impossible for anyone to read but Sherlock. The Detective reached over the side of his chair for his violin, fingers wrapping around its neck before he stopped.

"You still play violin. Are you any better than you were at five?"

It took the room a moment to realize what had happened, but Sherlock recovered quickly with a narrowed gaze. "How do yo-"

"Spoilers, Sherlock." The Doctor sat forward in his chair, reaching for a cup of tea with a grin. "Nothing like a nice cup of Earl Grey. A cup of tea could cure anything, aside from this tension."

Sherlock tapped his fingers at his armchair again, Morse code, testing the stranger as he arched a brow.

'What do you want?'

The Doctor tapped back. 'Your help, we must save time.'

* * *

The guests had left quickly, leaving John to his laptop and Sherlock to stare intently at the wall before him. The army doctor knew that his flat mate was in deep thought, but the events of the day had left footprints in his head that the waves could not wash away. Something about the stranger seemed familiar to him, wearing at his nerves until the small man could not take it anymore. He set his laptop aside and sat up in his chair, looking to Sherlock.

"That man- have you met him before? Furthermore, have _I _met him before?" Sherlock did not respond, he only tapped at his lips with his fingers.

"Of all times to ignore me, this is not a proper one," John moved forward in his arm chair, reaching toward the detective. "He knew when you began playing violin, Sherlock. He knew I was a doctor, he knew you were stubborn and he managed to silence Mycroft's ego all in one sitting. There is something about this man that seems- he's differe-"

Sherlock cut John off before the thought was finished. "Anyone can distinguish a practiced violinist by how they hold their violin, that's nothing astounding. You have the mannerism of a doctor, that was obvious and Mycroft has been quiet since Anthea went on holiday. He's no different than any common con man, but he asked for my assistance in Morse code. That's where he's different."

Sherlock stood to his feet and began to pace around his chair, eyes shooting to John. "_Why_, John? Why would he ask for my help in Morse code if he was a con man? What's his aim?"

"Perhaps he really needs your help." John stated quietly, sitting back in his chair. "You _are_ rather brilliant at problem solving."

"Yes, but save_ time_?" Sherlock stopped in place, something catching his attention. A beat.

John sits up straight, looking around. "What is it?" Suddenly the army doctor hears it too.

In the distance there is a soft screech of mechanical parts matched perfectly with a few gusts of wind. Sherlock rushes to the window to find the source of the sound, stopping at the pane to draw back the curtains quickly. John watches as Sherlock's face melts into a surprised expression, young and afraid of what is outside of the window and the man rushes over to his flat mate's side to see what it is. Nothing would surprise Sherlock now; nothing, except a materializing blue box just outside of 221B Bakers Street could shake the detective into fear. They watched as the police box faded into complete opacity below them, the power of the machine causing trees along the road to shake in jealousy.

Now John had seen everything.

The doors of the police box flew open and out stepped a figure, the stranger from before, turning on his heels with a squint in his eyes until they met John and Sherlock in the window. This time he wore a long, brown trench coat over his previous suit. The man waved, John remembered where he had seen the man before.

Before a thought could be formed in the shorter man's mind, Sherlock had stormed out of the flat and down to the street below. As soon as he realized what had happened, John followed after his friend quickly. The door was thrown open and the tall men looked at one another; The Doctor was pleased, Sherlock was not.

"Hello." The Doctor wiggled his fingers at the two men, grinning at the angry and vacant expressions he received. "I expect the pair of you are ready to go, then?"

"You." Sherlock started, stepping out of the threshold of the building. "Your tricks might please others but you do not amuse me."

"Tricks?" The Doctor looked back at the TARDIS, gesturing to her. "Oh, you mean this old girl. She isn't a trick, Sherlock, she's a TARDIS. Last of her kind, in fact."

"TARDIS…" John trailed off, eyes going wide. "You mean- you're _him_? You're the man that saved those people at Christmas a few years back. You're _The_ Doctor."

The Doctor slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat. "The one and only."

"Jesus-"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "You mean to tell us that you're a man with advanced technology that happens to save the world once in a while? An _urban legend_ in the flesh?"

Without a word; The Doctor pushed the doors of the TARDIS open farther, nodding toward the inside of the machine. As expected, Sherlock stepped closer to look inside of the box – finding more surprise within.

"That's not possible."

"But it is. She's bigger on the inside."

John joined a moment later, squinting to look around the inside of the box. It was a room! Well, more than just a room. A habitat, really. He turned to The Doctor, "May we?"

"Allons-y." He said with a nod. The two men entered.


End file.
